


Nameday

by Menchin



Series: Ashes [2]
Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Caves, Crossover, Desert, Gen, Thanalan, Ul'dah (Final Fantasy XIV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:01:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25145092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Menchin/pseuds/Menchin
Summary: He would like to believe that he’d recall being birthed by a stone, though it was certainly a possibility. He could not even remember his own name.
Series: Ashes [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1829986
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Nameday

**Author's Note:**

> What if you wanted to write a story but Bill Gates said no

_Hear. Feel. Think._

These were the first words he could register after his final run through the endless cycle of death and misery he had thought he was cursed to repeat forevermore, after he was pulled from the jaws of the ouroboros into this brave new world.

He was no stranger to reality-altering magicks, certainly. In a different time, in a different life, he had been a scholar – soldier – king? Perhaps all, perhaps none. Perhaps it did not matter.

The crystal woman had insisted that he was her child. He would like to believe that he’d recall being birthed by a stone, though it was certainly a possibility. He could not even remember his own name.

* * *

He just wanted to purchase some spices in peace. Was that really so much to ask? Can an Undead truly not flavor his Estus in this world without being accosted?

“-and of course, the brigand decided to run off with the crate! What was my husband thinking, entrusting that task to some bright-haired refugee!?” His latest errand-giver gestured widely, a sudden sneer accompanying the word ‘refugee’.

Shaking her head in some expression of feigned sympathy, she started her pontificating. “I feel for them, I do. My father was but a humble Lominsan captain before he built his fortune. But stealing food and labor opportunities from the people of Ul’dah is not the way!”

He wondered why everyone was so insistent on espousing their views and life stories to him. Then he wondered why he always listened.

The merchant’s hands met in supplication as she peered up at him with the hangdog look of an accomplished manipulator. “Noble knight-” Hah. “-pray recover the crate that _heinous_ thief stole. I would be in your debt.”

A moment of hesitation struck him. This venture would distract from the task given to him by the proprietress of the local Adventurer’s Guild. Then again, he did require more currency before he could move onto Limsa Lominsa to meet with the admiral whose name he would not dare attempt to pronounce. Such was the fate of Gridania’s newest envoy.

With a quiet, resigned sigh, he nodded his assent.

The merchant woman proceeded to hop up and down and clap her hands like an excited child.

“Oh, wonderful! I knew I could count on the kindness of an adventurer! I contacted some associates of mine and the thief was last spotted heading in the direction of Little Ala Mhigo, if you’re familiar with that rat’s nest.” He was not, but his map was.

* * *

Thanalan reminded him of Carthus, what with all the sand and moving cactuses. The ones in Carthus were a mite more unpleasant to behold than these cactuars, however.

For a moment the Undead thought he felt sweat under the many, _many_ layers of his armor. Perhaps it was just a hallucination, a phantom sensation of times long past. His desiccated husk of a body had lost the ability to sweat some time ago. Certainly, it came in handy when wading through ancient deserts and lava lakes. He did not wish to imagine how he would smell after however many eons he had spent in the same clothing.

The merchant had apparently ‘come to an arrangement’ with a local militia operating in the area to the northwest of Little Ala Mhigo. He was told that a woman in a heavy green robe would be waiting for him.

And so, the Undead wandered the desert, contemplating why he had neglected to rent one of the rather fragrant bird steeds the locals were so fond of riding on.

Finally, after what had to have been at least seven score years of wandering and kicking the occasional jumping desert fish, he spotted his quarry.

The robed Hyur woman was standing next to what passed for a road in these parts, little more than a chocobo-wide line of compacted sand and dust.

The robe parted as a hand was extended upwards in greeting. “Ho there! You’re the one Bubuke sent, yes?” _Bubuke? Ah, yes. That was the merchant’s name_.

The woman looked him up and down, eyes lingering around his midsection, before seemingly making her judgement and smirking. “Come, then. We have the thief and your crate over in our outpost.”

The walk to the outpost began, with no words exchanged between the pair. He wondered why his presence was even necessary when these militiamen had already apprehended the thief. Perhaps it was a particularly heavy crate.

* * *

The ‘outpost’ their journey took them to was little more than a quite well hidden cave. The only indicator that an entrance even existed was a tattered flag waving just above it, depicting a gryphon with blood-soaked claws holding a broken sword and roaring in front of an open flame. Perhaps not so well hidden, then.

An outstretched hand stopped the Undead before he could enter the cave proper. He assumed the smile plastered on the woman’s face was intended to be disarming.

“My friend, I trust Bubuke enlightened you as to the full extent of our little partnership?” The outstretched hand retreated into back into the robe and shifted, no doubt gripping a weapon of some sort.

The merchant did not enlighten him, as a matter of fact. He still nodded, curiosity peaked. Had he bumbled his way into a criminal enterprise? How exciting.

Robed shoulders sagged as the woman in front of him relaxed her grip on whatever weapon she was holding. “That’s good, friend. The last ‘venturer what came our way thought he’d play the hero and, well.” She flashed a mirthless grin. “Didn’t go very well.”

Looking into her eyes, he felt a flash of _something_ in his fractured mind. A faint yet steady pull, slowly mounting in pressure. It felt like standing in a shin-deep flow of water, and was just as easy to simply step out of.

* * *

The outpost itself was nothing he hadn’t seen before – men and women covered in patchwork armor, huddled around fires and drinking. Burly workers carried supplies to and fro. The faint groans of the injured echoed through the dark passages, growing louder in volume as the robed woman led him deeper and deeper still.

Some of the woman’s compatriots glanced their way when they heard his heavy footfalls, though they did not seem too concerned that a stranger was being led into their midst.

As they passed the infirmary proper, the Undead chanced a glance within. A glimpse of charred flesh was all it took to transport him to a different plane entirely.

_Hellkites pelt the archers with white-hot jets of flame, turning shining silver into ashen black. Sometimes they’re even able to scream._

He wished nothing more than to look away, yet he could not.

“Poor sods.” His tour guide snapped him out of his hellish reverie with her exclamation. “Amalj’aa got ‘em. I don’t expect they’ll survive the morrow.” She looked to her boots as a rueful smile formed on her lips. “I guess we’re not called the Corpse Brigade for nothin’.”

She shook her head with a sigh, dispelling whatever morbid thoughts occupied her mind. “Let’s go. Not too much further now.”

* * *

The guard in front of the storage room door seemed troubled.

“You seem troubled, Arnis.”

The guard started at that, as though he had somehow not noticed the two people walking up to him.

“Boss! I-It’s just-” He forced his eyes to shut and took a deep, calming breath. His soul dimmed more and more with every passing moment, guilt and fear gripping his heart. “Something happened.”

The guide narrowed her eyes and glanced back at the Undead before taking a step towards the door keeper. Harsh whispers filled the air, though the Undead did not attempt to listen to what they were saying. Even so, certain words filtered through the bubble of faux-privacy the pair had constructed. Words like “boys”, “bitch”, “fun”, and “dead”.

The guide pinched the bridge of her considerable nose, muttering an obscenity under her breath.

“Friend, I fear I’ll need to impose upon you further.” Oh? His head cocked to the side, not entirely of his own accord. He registered a faint brush to his arm as the guard excused himself.

His host gave him an odd look. “Perhaps it’s best if you see for yourself.”

As the door swung open, the Undead was greeted with something he was very familiar with – the miasma of death.

In the otherwise standard storage room, a certain feature seemed out of place. Namely, the corpse chained to the wall by one of its arms. It was female, going off the nature of the wounds its torn skirt revealed. A dropped boot blade and a bloody gash across its throat revealed the cause of death. An unfamiliar sensation struck the Undead, an icy weight in his gut.

Cold, faint, fragmented soul energy coalesced around the woman’s body. It reminded him of the residue Hollows left after they died.

He felt the same pull of flowing water as he did before, this time mounting in intensity. As the battered soul fragments rushed into him, the flowing stream gave way to whitewater rapids, taking him off his feet in an instant, forcing onto him an echo of a memory not altogether his own.

_Bloody Corpse Brigade. Marvelous idea, this was. Marvelous hosts, they are._

_Oh Elwin, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t strong enough._

_These bandits may have broken my body but they shall not break my spirit. I refuse to die on their terms._

_See you soon, love._

Elwin. He had taken so much from the dead, perhaps it would be fitting that he should take their names as well.

The rest of the memory rejected him. The cold stone in his gut settled. He felt calm.

The leader of these wild animals, the one who called him “friend”, the one he had been sent to aid, was talking to him. She seemed to think he was listening.

“We’ll need to capture another if we’re to-”

A gloved hand on her neck cut the rest of her sentence off along with her airway. She felt something crack in her throat as the hand lifted her up, leaving her gulping for air that would never come, kicking at nothing for purchase on the bloodstained floorboards.

“You were correct.” the voidsent holding her up rumbled. “Corpse Brigade is a fitting moniker.”

The darkened edges of her vision receded as she felt searing heat in her neck. She gripped her captor’s arm and pried away at it in a panicked frenzy. Her body wanted to scream yet all that came out was a gurgle of blood and sloughing tissue, splashing the ashen gold armor in front of her. Something painful ran down across her eyes and she could no longer see. With the last vestiges of her consciousness, she could feel the hand around her neck _squeeze_ – and with a deafening crack, she was no more.

The Undead dropped what remained of the body in his iron grip. Flicking the hand to be rid of the remnants of his pyromancy flame – _and melted flesh_ – he afforded the smoking form on the floor a glance.

Perhaps he had gone a tad bit overboard. Ah well, no matter.

He felt the bandit leader’s fragmented soul energy rush to his bosom.

These animals – this Corpse Brigade – thought they had the right to do whatever they wanted – to maim and abuse and kill whoever got in their way. Whoever they pleased.

It was only fair that they should receive the same treatment.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in like 3 hours. Maybe you could tell.


End file.
